


Like the Bird

by rozurashii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Other, the scottish pairing, violence to your person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-29
Updated: 2010-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-13 10:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rozurashii/pseuds/rozurashii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bloody aftermath of an incident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like the Bird

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't warn for violence but there are blood/gore allusions.
> 
> Written for letoist in the Sassy Exchange on LJ. Edited by Puchuu Poet and Helena

The screaming has stopped, the next time Sam flickers into consciousness. The pain is still there, burning up his spine like the fire of a thousand suns, but he can't make a sound louder than a whimper. His throat feels as though he's been swallowing shards of glass, shredded and raw. He can't bring himself to open his eyes but he's fairly certain that the hands pinning his shoulders aren't actually Dean's.

There is a moment where he thinks to say something but the swirl of pain takes him under before the idea blossoms into reality.

\---

"That's a lot more blood than I was expecting. Like, way more."

"I am working as quickly as I possibly can."

"Hey, no one is dissing on your skills, okay? Believe me; I have nothing but respect and appreciation for them."

\---

"Hey, Sammy, try to drink a bit of water. Just a little."

"There must be a more efficient way to do this."

"We're not exactly set up for IV fluids. It'll be fine when he wakes up."

\---

Fire rages under the haze of a morphine cloud. Sam is fairly certain that he has never felt anything so painful in his entire life. Every muscle in his body appears to have mutinied and the barest flicker of movement from his head sends a lightning strike of agony racing from the point of origin to his toes. The resulting spasm sets off a chain reaction of misery that is ended only by hands on either side of his spine.

"I would not recommend speech," Castiel advises him, before Sam can get any bright ideas. "I have not had the opportunity to address your lesser injuries."

Given the state he's in, Sam suspects "lesser" is on a different scale than usual. There is literally no part of him that doesn't hurt, even with the phenomenal dosing of painkillers that are blunting the edges of reality.

"Go back to sleep, Sam. Things will get better."

He can do nothing else and consciousness slips from his fingers.

\---

"Is he still bleeding? Shouldn't that have stopped by now?"

"I'm pulling out bone shards. It will take a while longer to clean it all up."

"Oh, disgusting. I'm going to be sick. I can't watch this."

"I need you to hold this aside, I can't see properly."

"Seriously, this is the grossest thing I've ever seen. Out of a lot of really nasty shit. People are not meant to have holes in them like that."

"Your assistance will ensure I finish quickly."

\---

Sam's mouth tastes like a sewer. He's dehydrated and a sludgy film coats the inside of his teeth but he still can't move, not even to release the discomfort of lying in the same position for days. Somewhere in the dingy motel room, Dean is snoring softly. In the faint lamp light Sam can only see the garish print of the bedspread and the bathroom door, propped slightly ajar.

He feels somewhat better than the last time. Dizzy and sleep sick but his skin no longer feels as though it's being shredded by mere contact. If he could get some strength to his arms, there's a chance he could even move, though the effort would likely knock him unconscious again.

"Wuh hapn'd," he mutters, tasting blood and bile as his tongue tries to form words.

"An unfortunate cursed object," Castiel replies, considerably closer at hand than Sam was expecting. He is sitting against the headboard on the other side of Sam, which is more obvious now that Sam knows to look for it. "We had to amputate the wings before they got too large."

It had been a fucking glass figurine, Sam remembers now, shaped like an angel; halo and everything. He'd picked it up because it had been pretty. Such a novice mistake. They'd been doing research on a selkie -- generally harmless except for the broken hearts they leave behind -- and he'd been careless. Touching things without ensuring they're safe is never a good idea and Sam knows better, usually.

He closes his eyes against another wave of dizziness that batters his aching head but doesn't drag him under, for once. He feels faint and weak and hurt. Even the marrow of his bones is sore.

"Mm gna lv?"

"You'll be fine," Castiel says. "You lost a lot of blood, but you'll be fine."

Sam doesn't feel any better, but it's nice to know that his death isn't imminent.

"Do you think you can eat anything, if I feed you?" Castiel slips from the bed, not bothering to wait for a reply Sam can't give. He fusses around near the TV where Sam can't see and comes back with a yogurt cup and a plastic spoon.

Peach flavor. It's too sweet and hard to swallow while lying on his stomach. Sam savors every bite, no matter how much his gut aches and protests. Castiel kneels at the side of the bed and carefully spoons yogurt into Sam's mouth. His nursing technique is less awful than Sam would have expected. They only spill a little and Castiel wipes drips up with a wad of Kleenex.

"I'm sorry, I know it isn't enough," Castiel murmurs. "What would be better? Fruit? Apple sauce? Soup? I'll pick something up for you."

"Mno," Sam groans out. He still can't form words, though he thinks now that it's whatever narcotics Dean and Cas have been feeding him, instead of his injuries.

"All right," Castiel says soothingly. "I'll just get a bit of everything and we'll see what works best. Go back to sleep."

Sam happily obliges. The last thing he's sensible of is Castiel's fingers brushing his cheek and then blessed nothingness.

\---

"Is that for me?"

"No, but you can have one, if you like."

"Thanks, I'm just going to have a shower first. I've got blood under my nails still."

"Perhaps something ought to be done about the mess."

"Something like a fire bombing? Don't worry about it. I'll clean it up later. Winchester specialty."

\---

There's a hand stroking through his hair, Sam thinks. It's the first thing that has felt nice in ages. His quick inventory finds him still unable to move but he's less concerned about it, now that he knows what happened. He doesn't open his eyes and instead melts into the sheets a little more.

"Is he all right?" Dean asks in a hoarse whisper.

"Healing is hard work," Castiel says. He appears to have pulled a chair up to the side of the bed as his voice is now coming from in front of Sam. "His body needs a lot of rest to recover."

"Mm fine," Sam mumbles. He still doesn't bother to open his eyes, though he's more awake now. "Jus' slpy."

"Do you want more food?" Castiel asks, brushing the fringe off Sam's forehead. "We went to the store while you were sleeping."

"Wn off m stmch," Sam replies. More than anything else, being in the same position for days is making him ache. He doesn't know if he can sit, or lean against anything, without excruciating pain but he's finally at the point that he's willing to find out.

"That's a bad idea, Sammy," Dean says.

At the same time, Castiel says, "Okay, just let me help."

The pressure of Castiel's hand against Sam's shoulder sends a lance of pain -- so strong he wants to vomit -- down his spine. He breathes through it and pulls his legs under himself as Castiel's touch burns across his synapses. It's miserable but oh so worth it once he's upright. He hunches a bit, trying not to stretch his wounds more than necessary.

Sam's initial hypothesis about leaning against anything was spot on, he discovers when he gently tests his injuries against the small mountain of pillows that Cas arranges for him. The motel is nice and normal, now that he can see the whole room. Not the usual tacky themed rat hole but a decent place.

Dean's sitting on the other bed and he looks like absolute crap, his five o'clock shadow is more like a five day beard and his grey t-shirt is spattered with deep rust colored stains. Beside him, Castiel doesn't look that much better. He's shed all his outer layers but hasn't changed his shirt which looks like a slaughter happened on it.

Frankly, it's nasty.

"Shirt," Sam says. It's the first thing he's been able to say without getting his tongue stuck on his teeth.

"The blood will not wash out," Castiel says ruefully. "Despite Dean's best efforts." He holds up a shopping bag and pulls things out, arranging them in such a way that Sam can see.

There are a lot of choices, mostly packaged things. Sam taps on the lid of a carton he can't identify.

"Tomato soup," Dean says, "from the deli."

Sam nods and taps it again. He can't lift his arms, he's discovered. Or move his shoulders particularly. Dean laughs when he sees what the problem is but it's Castiel who comes to the rescue. He clears the bed and sits himself in front of Sam with the paper carton of soup and the same plastic spoon from last time.

"Do you need more vicodin?" Castiel asks, offering a spoonful of soup.

"Zat what m on?" The soup is surprisingly good. It's a little peppery and most of all warm. The cramping is much less for this round of food and he's actually able to enjoy eating. Well, being fed.

"One of a number of things you're on," Dean confirms. "We had to dope you up pretty hard in the beginning or you would scream even when you were unconscious."

Suffice to say, Sam is glad he has no real memory of that. At some point, he'll want to look and see what the damage is like. It doesn't seem as though something has been removed. He hurts, of course, but he's not actually missing anything that is natural to his body. It's more like he's been shot or stabbed a lot. He's used to that feeling, but not the soul sucking weariness that's dragging at him, pulling him down.

"Tired agn," Sam says after a few more bites of soup.

It takes three times longer to get Sam settled again than it did to sit him up and it hurts infinitely more. He doesn't regret having done it, though.

"Let me change the bandages before you fall asleep entirely," Castiel says.

His silence is answer enough and Castiel lifts up the edges of the tape. The noise Dean makes is excruciating; a sort of gaspy groan that's cut off when he bites a knuckle. The carnage must be really bad, for Dean to respond without teasing or sarcasm.

"Whers th' edges?" Sam asks. "How big?"

"Sam..." Dean wants to tell him not to, Sam knows, but he can't because he would have already dragged himself into the bathroom to look in the mirror in Sam's place.

There is a dawning sort of horror as Castiel's fingers edge gently and purposefully along Sam's back, mapping the gaping hole that spans along the breadth of Sam's shoulders, across his spine, and down below his scapula. The scope is really terrifying. This isn't the sort of thing that you can just walk off. There's going to be a lot of rehab in his future.

"It will not be as bad as you are expecting," Castiel says, reading Sam's mind. "Once it has done more preliminary healing, I can use my grace to expedite the process."

"Chtng," Sam says with a smile and closes his eyes.

\---

"Are you awake, Sam?" Castiel's voice is husky, pressed tight against Sam's ear. "Dean's gone out for a while." His fingers are chilly, gingerly touching Sam's windpipe.

"D'you just fix my throat," Sam asks, hoarse but no longer slurring. He brings a hand up to slide them together.

"I had time," Castiel says. There's a bit of a smile in his voice, though Sam can't see a thing. The lamp is off, for once. "I wish I could do the same for your back."

Sam chuckles a little, hacking out a cough of a laugh. "You've done more than enough. Though, I would have liked to see them."

"They would have broken your spine," Castiel tells him, drawing a finger along each exposed vertebrae. "The weight would have been too much for your bones to handle and they grew too fast for your muscles to keep up with."

"Were they pretty at least?"

"I saved you a feather," Castiel says. "You can tell me what you think in the morning." The chill of his hands is very nice on the parts of Sam's back that aren't bandaged.

"I bet they were nice."

"If you'd been made for wings," Castiel agrees.

Sam gropes around for Cas's hand and allows himself to drift off again, pleased despite everything.


End file.
